


regardless of what's come before

by betteroblivion



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: F/F, camgirl dani, jamie watches her content, then dani rocks up in bly, uhh. uhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betteroblivion/pseuds/betteroblivion
Summary: Her shop, Owen, and Dani.Now that's a recipe for disaster if Jamie's ever seen one.aka jamie fancies a camgirl and the camgirl moves to bly uh oh whatever might happen
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Comments: 90
Kudos: 234





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have....... no excuses
> 
> brownie points if you catch the peep show reference! and i know owen's place in canon is called something else but in my defense they're different establishments
> 
> also what's a consistent style
> 
> any and all feedback is welcome, i hope you enjoy!

_The Leafling_ is a quaint little garden shop in an idyllic corner of the south-east of England, literally overflowing with greenery and petals and soil. It's run by a kind woman who likes to keep to herself, to sit with the plants and talk to them and nurture each one to maturity, root by root, in ways only she can. She isn't from the south-east of England, no, rather the north, born and raised in a gloomy estate in Sheffield, slowly drowning in concrete and petrol and mankind for most of her life.

That woman has a friend who owns a quiet café just down the road from her, and he is kind too, though in a different way, a louder way, a bolder way. He _is_ from the south-east of England, the same market town he lives in now, Bly, and he has only once or twice felt its stagnant waters begin to creep into his lungs.

And that man has a friend, a special type of friend, who works in the community and always has time for everyone — she is, like her friend and his friend in turn, kind, and her kindness is different too, a reverent kindness of ritual and honour. Her head is always underwater, but she pretends that she is fine, that she is breathing air, and it works. Sometimes.

That woman, that first woman, the kind woman with her plants and her garden shop, also has a special type of friend. This friend is different. She has never met her. She has never shared her name with this friend, nor learned her friend's real one. She knows far more about her friend than her friend knows about her. She isn't even sure that they are friends, really. But she knows her. And her friend is nice to her. And it's enough.

* * *

_Viola is now live._

Jamie's half-asleep, the television in the corner of her room unsettlingly bright and showing a rerun of _The Inbetweeners_ just for the company, when her phone buzzes on the coffee table. She sighs, and reaches for it after a minute or so, lethargy saturating her blood — the notification, after she's read it and parsed it and felt the little jolt of excitement and fondness in her chest, acts as an antidote, an instant rush of caffeine and energy. She rubs her eyes scruffily, forcing them to focus, mutes the telly, and guides her phone's browser onto a site, onto a page, she's all too familiar with.

It's only a few minutes into the stream, so Viola, the streamer, the _star,_ is just going to be talking idly, waiting for the viewers to come in so that the show can start properly: most people don't care about this part of any form of live-stream, the preamble, the admin, but Jamie feels a little bit of upset gnaw at her for the moments she's already missed.

When the video loads, Jamie is, as she always is when she sees Viola, enchanted.

She, Viola, is sat on a pretty pastel gaming chair, one leg bent with its foot resting on the seat and her arm wrapped around the shin, using her other leg to push on the floor and idly spin a little back and forth as she reads the chat. She, _Viola_ , is beautiful, blonde and doe-eyed and innocent and unassuming, gentle and warm and safe in ways that internet strangers shouldn't be, precious and lovely and Jamie can't help but adore her.

'you look really pretty today,' Jamie types into the chat, the words popping up next to _fleur92_ , her screen-name, a gangly combination of her birth-year and 'fleur de lune,' the French for _moonflower,_ a plant of which Jamie is particularly fond. She quickly adds, 'as always.'

Viola's eyes are evidently reading through the chat, her screen's reflection blatant in her eyes, along with the way her pupils dart, and the little changes in her face as she responds without realising, and Jamie smiles when Viola smiles and mumbles 'fleur' as though she were learning the word for the first time. (She isn't. Viola has messaged Jamie elsewhere to talk and say she appreciates her. They've talked about flowers and books and music from the 80's, and Viola still says 'Fleur' like she's just met her. Jamie can never tell if that's good or bad. She pretends it's good. She wants it to be good.)

Jamie has a look at the chat too, though it obscures half of the screen and cuts off most of Viola. It is, as ever, crude and dull and _thirsty_ , and Jamie will never understand how Viola can endure this every single day. That may be somewhat to do with Jamie being a lesbian, and Viola, presumably, being bisexual, or straight-but-performs-with-women-for-her-audience, but even if Jamie _was_ straight, god forbid, she can't see herself entertaining the idea for a mere moment. Jamie closes the chat and just watches Viola instead.

It takes, as ever, about ten minutes before the stream _really_ starts. Viola unbuttons the top few buttons of her blouse, a delicate baby blue silk, and lets the two sides fall and drape as they please, exposing a torturous, teasing, glimpse of Viola's breasts. The smile she gives the camera, like she doesn't know what she's doing but she _does_ but she also still has absolutely no idea, sets Jamie on fire.

Another while later, Jamie's hand is buried under her pants, fingers (middle and ring finger, of course) swirling beautiful circles over her clit, fast and gentle then _slow_ and gentle then slow and a little harder.

Viola is on her chair, riding a translucent hot pink dildo in small and desperate movements, with one hand doing the same as Jamie's. The noises she makes, Jamie knows, are for show — whimpers and gasps and moans and rare little exhales of 'daddy' — but Jamie guiltily and greedily indulges in them anyway, and she wonders which ones are real, if she could make Viola make those noises.

It's silly, really, to think so much of a stranger, an _American_ internet stranger who puts on a persona for her streams, but Jamie, truthfully, doesn't have much else, nor does she particularly want it. She has her shop, she has Owen, and she has Viola. She's content enough. This kind of complacency with her standing in life, her rung on the ladder, should definitely not come until she's at _least_ forty, she reckons — everything is okay, though; why rock the boat?

Jamie cums quietly, her hips thrusting and shaking, and her breath going crazy. She can never keep her eyes open when she's being _stimulated,_ let alone when she cums, and it's not for a lack of trying. How wonderful it would be to get to watch Viola's face whilst at the absolute peak of pleasure.

Viola follows suit soon, and Jamie watches her, and Jamie knows most of it is fake, for the camera, for the _men,_ but is enraptured all the same. Viola could read the dictionary for a language from some fantasy series Jamie doesn't care about and she would, still, be enraptured. Viola is a marvel to her, a deity amongst women, and sets a standard for people that nobody can match in _any_ way, not even Owen when he bakes Jamie enough parkin to feed a family of six for a year using Jamie's nan's recipe.

(Would Viola like parkin? She _is_ American, so maybe not, but, then again, Jamie reckons parkin is the greatest creation of all time so of course everyone, Viola included, would love it.)

Viola's talking again, breathless and sweaty but beautiful, and her voice is angelic, so Jamie throws all thoughts of treacle and ginger to the back of her mind.

"– no, no, I live in the UK actually!"

_That's new._

" _No,_ I will not tell you where, silly."

Jamie watches closer.

"London wasn't that great, I don't know why it's such a big deal."

Oh, now, hating on the south — _that's_ the way to Jamie's heart.

"Where am I from? Iowa, yeah, I left about six months ago."

Jamie's been watching her for about that long.

"Um, I'd always wanted to try this kind of thing and moving, like starting a new life I guess, really encouraged me to. I mean, why not?"

By now Viola's let the toy slip out of her and rest precariously near the edge of her seat, slick and messy and gorgeous.

"Yeah, it is pretty late here. I kinda like it though, living life at night feels different. In a good way! Like you're in on a secret."

'like a vampire,' Jamie types lamely before she can stop herself. And Viola, surprisingly, laughs out loud.

"Yeah, maybe Fleur! You never know, I do like to bite."

Jamie's heart skips a beat.

Her shop, Owen, and Viola. No, the _idea_ of Viola.

This is enough. It has to be.

* * *

 _The Leafling_ dons a snow white and emerald green colour scheme, of course. Owen's café, _Sconehenge_ , is black and gold because _of fucking course,_ and Jamie will never let him forget that they could've matched, been complementary colours, had he not been so bloody fancy — Owen will always remind her that green and white for a garden shop is far more humdrum than black and gold for a cafe (greasy spoons _are_ typically red and white, after all), and that his signs were expensive and hers were made with discarded wood and paint from Hannah's attic so if anyone should redecorate it's Jamie.

("By the way," Jamie said one day, less than a week after Owen had had his hard opening, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea and the other disapprovingly waving a pastry around in Owen's direction. "It's a scone, not a bloody _scone_."

"But it's not Ston-Henge is it?" he had bantered back, with his eyebrows raised ever so frustratingly.

"Just 'cause you're posh."

"I know my market."

"Sure you do." Jamie paused pointedly, almost tempted to hum to herself to wind Owen up. "That's why your mum says scone."

"She says _scone_ , Jamie."

"God, I bet you put the jam first too, like a monster."

"You _know_ me, you _know_ I do that."

Jamie rolled her eyes.

"You should see the scone polls, you're such a fake northerner," Owen said after a while, reading off the phone in his hand.

"I'm correct is what I am.")

Jamie, as always, picks up a tea and a nice hot toastie, chats to Owen for a moment (a calm medley of 'you alright?'s and 'dreadful out today i'nt it?'s), and walks down to her shop. Her sanctuary, really.

The day passes as any other does — she fusses about watering and sunlight and humidity; has to tell a couple of people that she isn't, in fact, a florist; and bursts into handfuls of detail-packed monologues about this and that plant for those who ask. It's good. It's definitely enough.

She's all too soon carrying a glum venus flytrap in a particularly glossy purple pot, having offered to rehabilitate it after a child's parent had asked for help — "these are proper fussy, y'know?" Jamie had asked with a skeptical frown, "A real challenge, especially for young'uns" — down the street to _Sconehenge_ , and it's becoming dark already, as England has a tendency to do. Her footsteps are quick, quiet, a pitter patter in her periphery, and there's a brief serenity in the seventy yards or so that she doesn't even resent the cobbles beneath her, nor the distant hum of far-too-loud music from the house with the lads on break from university, nor the pot taking up her hands when her phone chimes with a noise that only a certain social media app makes, which she only has notifications on for one specific person.

She has to walk backwards into Owen's café, so she doesn't have time to process or question the flash of blonde facing away from her, _past closing time,_ that is definitively not Hannah or Rebecca, or even Owen's mum, or anyone at _all_ that Jamie knows that Owen knows.

"Jamie!" Owen shouts, face bright, gesturing her over and offering a little nod her way to encourage the stranger to turn too. "Tell dear Dani here that I'm a good boss."

"No way," Jamie quips, setting the pot down gently on a table against the wall. Once it's down and she is up, she looks to Dani to try and place her, and oh. Oh _no._ She's placed instantaneously. Dani is beautiful, blonde and doe-eyed and innocent and unassuming, gentle and warm in ways that strangers in Owen's shop shouldn't be, precious and lovely and Jamie can't help but adore her and want to run all the way to Windsor, not looking back once, so she can sit in a gutter and cry because of course this had to happen to her. "Jamie," she adds flatly, and she can feel the panic painting itself over her face, in her eyes, but she can't stop it, and she stares right at Owen and can't look away because Owen is safe and _actually_ familiar and good, and oh my _god_ this has to be a dream. "T' _Leafling's_ mine."

"Very tricky work," Owen jokes, nudging Dani with his elbow.

"Fuck off," Jamie retorts before she can stop herself. It's a joke, a consequence of her dialect and Britishness, but she, for whatever reason (she knows the reason) doesn't want Dani to think of her as sour.

"That's one of the Wingrave kids'," Owen tells her, pointing to the plant. "You're doing a _child's_ job."

Dani inhales as if about to say something, and Jamie notices, god does she notice, but Dani lets the two bicker between themselves.

"You have a bloody go then," Jamie says, folding her arms. She squints ever so slightly to blur Vi— Dani's face in the corner of her vision. "Then tell a kid you killed its plant."

"'It?'" Owen teases.

"Yeah. It."

"Never have children, Jamie."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

They laugh, a short and amicable laugh, and Jamie steps to the counter to pick up an unclaimed jam tart.

"What d'you wanna work for Owen for, anyway?" she asks, turning to Dani, the words stodgy and uneasy.

"Oh! I don't," Dani answers. She glances at Owen, mumbles a 'sorry,' and then looks back to Jamie. "I did some work with some of the children here and Hannah — Hannah Grose — rang me last week to say that there's an opening at the school. I had my interview today, and I'm meant to be meeting Hannah here, but Owen is… Yeah." She looks embarrassed at how much she's said, oddly enough.

"Hannah told me you did some killer pastries," Owen says, a little exasperated, as if he's said it a hundred times today.

"And _I_ told you I just prefer working with kids," Dani replies, eyes flitting to Jamie, smiling bright and brilliant. Her smile is even more angelic in person. Everything about her is, really: her hair and her eyes and her voice and her _hands,_ and _come on, Jamie, you can't be fawning over some girl's bloody hands._

"What about plants?" Owen asks, looking at Jamie. "We work together a lot, she's just down the way, and I do need a pastry chef…"

"Now that you mention it…" Dani jokes, smiling away and Jamie laughs and Owen sighs. "Actually, this is kinda silly, um… But I have this internet friend? And she knows a lot about plants and makes them seem really cool, so it wouldn't be the worst job in the world! Still here for the kids though."

Jamie frowns. Her? Fleur? Her? Jamie? She hopes it comes across as judgment or confusion rather than a frenzy of sapphicism, though judging Viol— _Dani_ isn't much better. "Oh right," is all she can think to reply.

"Jamie has a few internet friends," Owen begins, and there's a painful fuzz in Jamie's tummy. "She plays _Dungeons and Dragons_ every week, and then takes the mick because I like fantasy stories. Such a snake." Jamie rolls her eyes, the fuzz dissipating — _how would Owen even know I watch Viola anyway?_

"That's awesome," Dani says after a few silent beats. "Imagination is really good."

"Thanks, Miss," Jamie jokes. "Is it home-time yet?"

Dani sends Jamie a look, a slight eyebrow raise, on the verge of laughing, and Jamie smiles back. Viola's not so scary.

In a matter of minutes, Hannah's arrived, whirling Dani into a hug and congratulating her for her stellar interview and sparkling curriculum vitae; kissing Owen on the cheek and smoothing his hair back; resting a hand on Jamie's shoulder and telling her about how Flora Wingrave is _so_ excited to have her plant taken care of by Hannah's friend, how she must have magical green fingers ("No pressure then, eh?").

Hannah and Jamie sit next to each other, splitting a teapot between them — Hannah's tea black, Jamie's with a splash of milk — and opposite Dani and Owen, Dani sipping a hot chocolate and Owen holding a glass of blackcurrant squash.

"Isn't that for kids?" Dani asks when Owen sits down.

"Says hot chocolate girl," Owen teases back.

"I thought America didn't have squash anyway," Jamie notes, setting her mug down.

"I've been here for six months, I've picked some things up," Dani banters delightfully.

Jamie just nods.

"So, six months, what have you been doing for work? And, _no_ , I'm not gonna ask you to make pastries again," Owen says.

"Uh, mostly stuff at night," Dani answers, leaking trepidation. "I think I need the sun again though."

"Yeah," Jamie starts. _Don't fucking say it_. "You're not a vampire."

There's the slightest of squints, frowns, twitches, a dance of hesitant recognition, in Dani's face. _Fuck_. "Could be! Never know." _Thank god._ "What do you do, though? And Hannah?"

Jamie nods at the venus flytrap a few tables over, almost forgetting that she'd mentioned her shop earlier. "Plants."

"I do mostly what we did when we met, Dani," Hannah answers, far more gracious than Jamie. "Community work — helping the elderly, children and marginalised communities, setting up events…"

Dani nods, and smiles with charming eagerness. Dani's smile is, decidedly, a curse.

The conversation ebbs and flows for a good half hour, the outside even darker and the streetlights even warmer. Dani keeps checking her phone. Jamie still hasn't checked hers.

"Waiting on someone?" Owen asks when he notices.

"Oh, n— work stuff, sorry." Dani's cheeks are _pink._

"Yeah?" Jamie lets out before she can stop it.

"Yeah, uh… Yeah. Yeah."

"We can ring your boss for you if you want. Tell 'em to stick it." _Stop it. Stop tempting fate, you know she doesn't have a boss, shut up you dumb fucking—_

"That's alright," Dani says, tucking her phone into her pocket. "I've got it. Thanks."

"No problem."

It definitely, definitely, _definitely_ is a problem. The woman subject to six months worth of Jamie's lust is _here._ Here. Bly. Fucking hell.

Her shop, Owen, and _Dani._

Now that's a recipe for disaster if Jamie's ever seen one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i return.
> 
> i'm sorry this took forever, i was in the middle of moving flat and had limited-to-no internet and limited-to-no time :(
> 
> the response to the first chapter absolutely stunned me away oh my gosh! thank you with all the thank yous in the world <3
> 
> any and all feedback is welcome, and, again, i hope you enjoy!
> 
> (cw: implications of abuse)

"Why'd that girl put you in this nasty soil, hm?" Jamie Taylor murmurs to Flora Wingrave's meek venus flytrap, rinsing the remaining dirt inside the particularly glossy purple pot out into her sink. "She's a silly sod, isn't she? Yeah, you'll like this _much_ better."

She gently, always gently, places the plant back in its pot — this time, though, in a healthy mix of peat moss and perlite, the pot in a tray with enough water to keep the flytrap fed for a week, and under one of the fluorescent lamps she keeps at home for special projects such as this. She fiddles with a terrarium for the humidity on auto-pilot, having done this countless times before. All of the traps of the plant are open, so she feeds one, and takes a quick few photos to be able to monitor the plant's progress. It'll be fine, she has no doubt.

"Night, pal."

* * *

It's strange, Jamie thinks, a few days after _Dani_ appeared, while watching the rain slash at the window panes at the front of her shop, that Viola is so cool and controlled and confident, but Dani is, well, a _normal girl,_ with a tummy full of anxieties and a brain swimming in its own restlessness. She knows, knew, that Viola was always a persona (for the men, she reminds herself), but Dani being a bumbling mess when they cross paths in the street throws Jamie for a good few loops. It's nice, though. She wonders how many people know both Dani _and_ Viola. Maybe only her and Dani do. What delightful company to be in.

Dani — Danielle Clayton, Jamie learns — fits into the post-work get-togethers in _Sconehenge_ as though she were never not there. She doesn't even have work to get together after, not yet, but from what Jamie's heard in passing, Dani's being trained on the curriculum she's due to teach, and has been tasked with placing names to faces without fail to make it easier for the kids, apparently, which everyone in the café agrees is ridiculous and unnecessary in every way.

Everyone except for Rebecca Jessel, who only ever has free time on Friday evenings. (Jamie hopes Dani won't follow suit.) "Things like teachers changing can affect some of the children more than we realise," she offers in gentle balance to the larger group's firm opinion. "I'm not saying it _has_ to happen, but it helps and to me that's worth it."

"You're too good for 'em," Jamie says, reading Hannah's crossword in the newspaper over the other woman's shoulder.

"It _is_ my job, Jamie," Rebecca reminds her, smiling a smile that, thinking about it, Dani has sometimes too — caring, _impossibly_ caring, but in the knowledge that she's right and she is free and she is bowing to nobody.

"You're too good for most people, then," Jamie corrects herself, glancing up at Rebecca to convey her sincerity. "Nine across is _acanthus,_ by the way."

"Thank you," Rebecca and Hannah say at the same moment, Rebecca then taking a sip of her tea and Hannah neatly crossing out the clue reading 'genus of plants with large spiny leaves and spikes of white or purple flowers.'

Owen returns to the front of the café, the café part of the café, Dani-less and with his dressing gown on. "Up we go."

Owen Sharma is the luckiest bastard in the _world,_ Jamie reckons. She tortures herself with this every time she remembers that Owen landed his shop as well as the flat above it, and he gets to saunter downstairs every morning. He doesn't, as she does, have to deal with the collateral damage of England's chronic alcoholism and keep a tattered old pair of shoes just to walk to and from work, the fancy fuck. (Walking over _that_ stretch of pavement isn't too bad most days, but she'd wrecked a pair of trainers from the build-up of piss and cider. And probably much worse, if she's honest. It doesn't bear thinking about.)

Upstairs, in Owen's flat, Dani is stood awkwardly next to a chair and the television is silently playing something that Jamie could swear she's seen a hundred times before. (Good old _Dave._ )

"Hi," Dani says quietly to the group, as though she hadn't been talking with them five minutes ago, just before Owen offered to take her on a walking tour of his place.

"The sofa won't bite," Owen tells her, gesturing for her to sit down.

"Hi," Jamie says, just a little more loudly than Dani did.

"Hi Dani," Rebecca greets, hanging her coat on a peg and sliding her shoes off.

"How are you?" Hannah asks her, and Jamie knows that when it comes to Hannah the greeting of 'how are you?' or 'okay?' or 'everything alright?' is never a British-ism or a formality, and she _genuinely_ cares. It's a little overwhelming to think about, how deep Hannah's grooves of selflessness and affection run.

"Fine, thanks," Dani says, and her voice has that incredible, slightly high, lilt that Jamie recognises from Viola whenever she gets sent a tip, a grace and warmth with a _dash_ of bashfulness. "How are you though? I saw the noticeboard, do you still need help?"

Hannah peels away from the ever-shrinking cluster at the top of Owen's stairs, her own shoes neatly tucked on the shoe rack, and continues talking to Dani, quickly encouraging her to sit down on the sofa. Jamie watches, as subtly as she can, taking a painful amount of time to shrug her jacket off. She hangs it up on the hook with Owen's keys on, rehanging his keys over the jacket, and slips her phone from the garment into her waistband. Her notifications are, for tonight, completely silent — she's noticed that Dani… Viola, rather, uses queueing apps for some of her posts, and they're never on the hour or at normal times, and Jamie really doesn't want to appear suspect. It's probably too much. Everyone gets texts. Everyone gets stupid spam emails. Everyone gets pointless dings from apps they never use. Dani can't know that Jamie knows, though. Belt and braces.

And then there's a knock, distant but aggressive, at the front of the shop, Jamie would guess. "Owen, I think Mister Charming is here," she announces, nodding at the stairs.

The natural glee in Owen's face flashes away for a moment. He recovers, as always, with a smile. "Great," he responds, and he's _almost_ sincere. "I'll bring him up."

When Owen is out of earshot, Rebecca takes Jamie by the wrist (gently, Rebecca is never not gentle) and Jamie follows without hesitating to the bathroom, the most covert hideout in the flat.

Rebecca scrunches her eyes shut for a few seconds, taking a deep, deep, _deep_ breath. "Peter isn't happy with me."

"When is he ever?" Jamie asks back, but slow, cautious. She wouldn't be having this conversation in a locked bathroom with a woman bristling with tension if this was a garden variety unhappiness.

"It's different."

Jamie can't think of a single word to say back. She hums a syllable of understanding instead. Rebecca doesn't meet Jamie's eyes though, now staring at the floor, hands shaking and shoulders not faring too much better.

"I, er… Okay," Jamie says. "Okay, you're gonna be alright, Jessel."

Rebecca's crying now, so Jamie opens her arms to offer her a hug and Rebecca _falls_ into her.

"Boyfriends are shit," she continues, arm tight around Rebecca's back. "Never liked boyfriends. Um… If I run I can get him to piss off?"

"No," Rebecca replies, almost immediately. "He'd know."

"Yeah, hardly subtle I s'pose. Uh… I could start a fire?"

Rebecca laughs. "You're ridiculous."

"Mm." Jamie sways a little as she thinks, staring at a crack in the paint on the wall behind Rebecca. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Are _you_? Okay, I mean."

"...Not really."

Jamie holds her tighter. "What are we gonna do, hm?"

"I need to talk to him. I know I do," Rebecca resolves.

"You don't have to, not tonight."

"I do or I never will."

"Sure."

Rebecca sniffles. She doesn't let go of Jamie.

"You, uh… You should talk in Owen's room," Jamie offers. "I'm probably imagining worse than what it is, but it means if you need help we're all right here, yeah? Five against one, I mean, we all know who's winning that."

Rebecca nods, muttering a 'thank you' as she finally untangles herself from Jamie. "Do I look like I've been crying?"

* * *

Peter doesn't shout.

Rebecca doesn't either.

Peter does, however, raise his voice.

Rebecca only wails, and Jamie tenses at the sound.

Peter kicks a lamp over on his way out.

Rebecca picks its stand up and throws it down the stairs in his trail.

Peter slams the front door behind him.

Rebecca slams Owen's bedroom door behind her.

Peter is hurt, but only his ego truly carries the burden.

Rebecca is hurt, and her entire soul is bleeding.

* * *

Jamie sits at Rebecca's side all night, passing her a cup of water for every drink she necks down. Rebecca doesn't really talk, sat with a million-yard-stare and smudged eyeliner, but her hand is in Jamie's, and Jamie's shoulders are flush against hers, and Jamie can _feel_ that she's as alright as she can be right now. The booze is certainly helping.

Dani sits on the other side of Rebecca, filling the sofa up, talking to Hannah who's on one armchair, with Owen being in the other armchair opposite, on Jamie's Rebecca-less side. Whenever she glances at the glue between Rebecca and Jamie, Jamie's cheeks _blaze._

"Never have I ever…" Owen lazily begins, deep into the night, a dodgy cider from an off-license in his hand. "Shagged a stranger."

Jamie drinks. Dani drinks. Rebecca, eventually, drinks.

"Never have I ever," Hannah continues, her shitty gin sat on the table. "Faked it."

Jamie raises her bottle and drinks. Rebecca drinks, for a solid ten seconds. Dani drinks, again.

"Dirty buggers," Owen mutters.

"Never have I ever," Dani slurs, far too loudly, smirking. "Fucked in public."

Nobody drinks.

Owen and Hannah stare at the floorboards.

They both drink.

"We're talking about that later," Jamie tells Owen.

"Never have I ever… Um… We've had all the good ones already, fuck. Never have I ever done sex work?" Rebecca offers.

Jamie can see Dani's knuckles tense. Dani doesn't drink. Nobody drinks.

"Never have I ever done a sex worker," Jamie continues quickly.

Dani taps her foot rapidly against the floor, as if steeling herself, and she takes a very brief sip.

"America," is her defense.

* * *

Owen lets Rebecca sleep in his bed, and she goes to sleep very early. Well. Two thirty in the morning, but earlier than everyone else. Dani shuffles closer to Jamie, and Owen takes Dani's spot on the sofa, leaning on the arm to talk with Hannah.

"Y'know," Dani says, leaning into Jamie. "You probably have a shot with her."

"Hm?" Jamie asks, tense, _oh my_ god _does Dani know?_

"Rebecca. When she's okay, I mean."

"Oh." Huh. "I'm not, I… No."

"Mm, sure."

"Seriously, V— Dani. Dani. Seriously. I don't like her."

"What?"

"What what?"

"I thought you said… Never mind."

"Okay."

They go to bed when the sun is just around the corner. Jamie's definitely gonna hate herself when she wakes up.

* * *

viola 💌: hey! missed u recently

fleur92: hi

fleur92: yeah

viola 💌: are u ok?

fleur92: yeah, you?

viola 💌: yeah im good! idk if you saw my last story but i got a new job so thats been my priority :(

fleur92: oh that's cool i'm glad

fleur92: anything good?

viola 💌: dream job if im honest

fleur92: that's really great vi

viola 💌: yeah?

fleur92: yeah

viola 💌: okay im just kinda worried about you :( idk ur typing different are u sure ur okay 💞

fleur92: no i'm sorry i'm fine i promise

fleur92: do you have plans for your streams and stuff?

viola 💌: if ur sure. and i dont! i might have to delete everything due to the nature of the job :( i love the community tho so i hope not but idk. my u know what might stay up but itll probably die quite fast without directing traffic to it yknow

fleur92: oh ok well it's your choice

fleur92: and if it helps your dream job you should do it

fleur92: you could always make profiles like mine and redirect people to them before deleting your originals?

fleur92: talking to you is nice everyone else here is annoying

viola 💌: yeahhh thats what i was thinking :( i might not have the time to keep up w/ anything tho idk yet. i guess its just a bit early? and i like a lot of the people here!! talking to u is probably my favorite tho :)

fleur92: hate to see you go love to see you walk away

fleur92: sorry that was stupid

fleur92: but i'm glad

fleur92: your life is more important than horny people online vi remember that

viola 💌: shfjgj i have to be quiet irl because im at a friends house but i nearly laughed out loud (i have also been awake for 26 hrs and had a lot of sambuca so it might be that but its funnyyyy) 💖💖 and yeah ur right but its hard to think about making that choice ig

fleur92: 'friend'

fleur92: hard choices are normally the right choices though aren't they

viola 💌: it is a friends house :( i dont like him but idk there is someone rly nice here

fleur92: ooh viola has a crush

viola 💌: theyre lovely fleur

fleur92: you're lovely

viola 💌: theyre loveliest

fleur92: you haven't met yourself then clearly

viola 💌: seriouslyyy

fleur92: ok seriously?

viola 💌: seriously

fleur92: we regret what we don't do more than what we do do

viola 💌: ok. yeah

viola 💌: thank you. ill let u know how it goes :)

fleur92: looking forward to it!

viola 💌: AH ok i think i need to go to bed now but thank you this has really made me feel better, u always do <3 sleep tight!

fleur92: night x


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